One man and many men

In the morning we walk as in flimsy dreams and map our souls on to random personae drawn from scattered images and chance talk.We are not we but many men fused together.

You see we are of the Shakespearean stage playing bit parts not germane to the plot.

What are we then, among these autumn leaves, fallen and in heap, with those ripe red fruits, yet waiting for a gust of wind from the west?